


Breathe Again

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, enclosed spaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Small dark spaces. I love ‘em.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts).



‘Are you all right, Dean?’

‘Me? Yeah, fine, great, awesome.’ Dean shoves his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them from shaking but it isn’t like Cas can _see_ him so it doesn’t really matter. He takes a deep breath, tries not to feel the coat hooks on the inside of the door brushing against his shoulder as he does. ‘Small dark spaces. I love ‘em.’

‘We may not be here long.’ Castiel’s voice is a warm buzz just loud enough not to be a whisper.

‘Fine.’ At least the closet is clean and dry -- no smell of mold or must. There’s nothing on the floor and only an old sweater hung on the pegs at the back of the door. He can feel one sleeve brush his shoulder when he breathes. Witches must be seriously into housecleaning. There’s even a faint sweet scent: like mint or lavender. 

‘Can you hear anything?’

Dean closes his eyes -- not that it makes a fuck-load of difference in the pitch-fucking- _black_ \-- and listens.

Nothin’.

There’s fucking _nothing_ he can hear except the slosh of his own blood pumping through his veins and the distant sound of his balls sucking back up into his body.

‘No.’ He pauses, listens again. ‘That _was_ the front door, right?’

‘Yes. The sound was unmistakeable.’

‘No shit.’ Anyone who hung little bells that played a tune on the front door should be hung up by her ankles as far as Dean is concerned -- but he supposes in this case he should be grateful. The airy-fairy little tune had been the only sign that they weren’t alone in the suburban Georgian Revival any more.

‘Well, now what?’ Dean wants to glare at Cas, but he can’t because even though the angel’s got to be right the fuck in _front_ of him, Dean can’t see him at all. This just keeps getting better and better ‘cause not only can he not _see_ a goddamned thing, there’s barely room for him to stand upright. There’s a shelf an inch or so above his head; he can stand straight, but he keeps crouching reflexively.

He feels Castiel shrug, hears the rasp of the trenchcoat against his own leather jacket. ‘We wait.’

‘My favorite,’ Dean says under his breath.

‘They cannot find us here, Dean.’

‘Unless they want to hang up their coats.’

‘It is a warm night.’

‘Aren’t witches cold-blooded?’

‘They are warm-blooded, like all humans.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’

There’s silence for a few minutes while Dean listens to the buzz of panic inside his skull and tries to remember how breathing works. 

‘Dean.’ Castiel’s voice is barely above a breath but he’s about six inches away from Dean at best. Plus the house is _silent._

‘What?’

‘Are you all right?’

_No , I’m not fucking all right. I fucking hate this. I hate every last tiny little fucking thing about it and I want to be gone. I want to be anywhere but fucking here_. ‘’m fine.’

Something brushes the back of Dean’s hand and he only just bites back a noise. 

‘You are cold.’ Castiel sounds slightly surprised.

Dean can’t blame him -- it’s a warm April night and the closet is a little stuffy. With his jacket on, he should be sweating. ‘Am I?’ He doesn’t even know if Cas is right -- he doesn’t feel cold to himself. Going for the simplest answer, he balls his hands and stuffs them tight into his jacket pockets and okay, _now_ he can tell -- his fingertips are cold in his palms.

‘And you are shaking --’ Castiel’s hand closes over his arm just below the elbow. ‘Dean--’

‘’m _fine!’_ Dean hisses out the words with as much force as he can muster without actually speaking and tries to shake Castiel’s hand off with a quick jerk of his arm. It doesn’t work and he _hates_ it when the angel touches him -- hates the way it distracts him, hates the way his attention instantly concentrates on wherever Castiel’s hand is, hates the way it makes his mouth go dry, hates the way it makes him want to put a hand on Castiel. 

That’s not something they _do_ \-- not something they’ve _ever_ done and if it's something he wants so bad sometimes he can damn near _taste_ it -- well, that’s just his problem, now isn’t it?

‘You are not.’ Castiel hesitates but Dean can almost hear the wheels grinding over as the angel thinks. ‘You are -- you are not-- ’ He falls silent again and Dean can’t stand it for more than a few seconds.

If nothing else, the quieter Castiel stays, the more Dean can hear his heartbeat in his ears and the sound of his own breathing and think about the smell of damp earth and the taste of rotten wood in his mouth.

_‘What_ , Cas?’

‘You are not...afraid of the dark?’ 

Dean chokes back a laugh, swallowing so hard his chest hurts. When he can trust himself to speak softly again: ‘No. M’not afraid of the dark.’

Castiel is silent and Dean can hear the wheels grinding again. He’d pound his head against something if there were a little more light and he thought he wouldn’t either brain himself on a coat hook or bring a coven of witches down on his neck.

Speaking of which-- ‘I still can’t hear anything.’

Castiel holds his breath for a second; Dean can hear him inhale. ‘They are...upstairs. The...kitchen?’

‘Dude, how the hell do you know that?’

‘I can hear them.’

‘So we’re stuck here, is what you’re telling me.’

‘I am sorry.’

Dean closes his eyes -- which at least makes the darkness self-imposed -- and tries to dredge up every single piece of profanity he knows and then _not_ say them aloud. ‘S’okay.’

They stand silent again and Dean’s shoulders are starting to ache when Castiel breathes out, ‘If it is not the dark...’

_Christ._ Dean grits his teeth, _wills_ the angel not to ask the next question. It’s bad enough Cas’ hand still hasn’t moved, is still a warm, solid presence on his arm.

‘...then--’ Castiel stops. ‘You do not have to tell me.’ He sounds almost as if he can see the expression on Dean’s face.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood -- but at least that’s not wood and mud and grass. ‘Y’ever used a shovel, Cas?’

Castiel considers it -- actually _thinks_ about it -- for a few seconds. ‘No.’

‘Well, the next time you bring someone back from the dead, y’might want to think about it.’ Dean hears his voice getting too loud, too angry, and bites off the rest of what he had been going to say.

He’s not mad at Cas anyway -- not _really_. How could you be mad at someone who picked you out of Hell and gave you your life back?

‘A shovel,’ Castiel repeats and Dean can hear that he doesn’t understand.

Dean takes a deep breath and fumbles until he finds Castiel’s shoulder, then leans forward until he feels the rough fringe of Castiel’s hair against his cheek. ‘Y’dropped me in my fucking _grave,_ Cas. Didn’t you think of that!’

‘I--’

‘It was a bit of a bitch diggin’ out from the inside!’ Dean lets go of Castiel’s shoulder and wishes he could take a step back: away from the angel, away from the closet, away from whatever’s hammering in his chest that feels far too much like panic and whatever’s burning the back of his eyes that feels way too much like tears. He’s _never_ cried about this -- what would be the fucking point? -- and he’s goddamn well _not_ going to start now.

‘Dean--’

‘A worm dropping in your eye is a hell of a welcome back to the world,’ Dean mutters, almost swallowing the words back at the last minute and shrugs himself deeper into his jacket, closing his eyes, and locking his teeth together. 

Castiel says nothing and the house outside is silent except for a very distant rustling noise that sounds like water moving in the pipes. 

The quiet pushes on Dean’s ears, makes him think he hears all kinds of things: footsteps on the stairs, wind outside, someone opening the door. 

Castiel apologizing. 

‘--What?’

‘I am sorry.’

Dean blinks his eyes open and stares in the direction he knows Castiel must be in because it’s the foot of space _he_ isn’t standing in. ‘Y’what?’

‘I am... _sorry,_ Dean--’ Something rustles as Castiel shifts position and Dean feels a fold of the trenchcoat brush his knee. ‘I did not -- I thought -- I thought you would -- be in your body.’

‘I _was_ \-- and thanks for...y’know...’ Dean makes a vague gesture at his face and whacks his hand on the inside of a hinge. He sucks at the bruised spot for a minute, then adds, ‘Not makin’ me all zombified, but -- Cas, they _buried_ me. What...I mean...what did you _think_ would happen?’

‘I...did not know.’ Castiel sounds painfully embarrassed, his fingers tightening on Dean’s arm and Dean can picture the vivid flush on his cheeks, that color Castiel only turns when he is well and truly caught out. ‘How could I _know!’_

‘Couldn’t you...I don’t know...check your notes?’

‘What?’

‘From the last time!’ Can it really be so freakin’ hard? Heaven’s got rules for _everything--_

‘There _was_ no last time!’ Castiel hisses at him.

‘What?’ Dean blinks hard as if that will make the inside of the closet suddenly bright but all it does is make sparks appear in front of his eyes that dance in the blackness for a moment before vanishing.

‘What _last time!_ Why would there be a last time? I do not make a _habit_ of rescuing souls from Hell!’ Castiel sounds as if Dean had accused him of cheating on his taxes. ‘I did not -- I _never --’_

‘Okay, okay, jeeze--’ Dean fumbles and finds Castiel’s shoulder, pats it awkwardly. He can feel the angel’s breathing rough and unsteady and, guiding himself by his own arm, pats across Castiel’s chest with his other hand until he can find Cas’ other shoulder and give the angel a slight shake. 

‘Why would I do that! I had _never---’_

‘Okay, _okay,_ Cas, I get it -- special case.’

Castiel is silent for a minute then Dean feels the angel’s hand loosen, shift, and then Castiel’s hand moves slowly up Dean’s arm, touching the leather jacket lightly. 

Castiel tests each inch of Dean’s arm as though it might unexpectedly turn out to be something nasty and by the time his fingers reach the side of Dean’s throat, Dean can’t tell what the hammering of blood in his ears is coming from any more. 

‘I am...’ Castiel stops and Dean can practically hear him fumbling for the word he wants. ‘I am so sorry, Dean...’

‘Yeah, well...’ Dean shrugs again and can’t stop himself from adding, ‘Too late now.’

Castiel’s fingertips -- gentle, light, as if he is trying to discover the contours of Dean’s face by touch -- move across Dean’s ear and cheek and brush against his lips. 

Dean swallows hard, resists the insane urge to lick the wandering fingertip. 

What the fuck is Castiel _doing!_ Dean has spent _hours,_ fucking _days_ probably by now explaining to himself at length why this won’t happen. This isn’t _them_ \-- this _isn’t--_

‘But...you got yourself out...’ Castiel’s voice is something below a whisper now and Dean thinks it’s only because it’s been so damned quiet for so long that his ears have sensitized and he hears it. 

His fucking _face_ feels sensitized, too, now, like Castiel’s fingertips are warmer than they should be. The angel is stroking a thumb over his cheekbone now, a slow, gentle movement, as if Castiel is trying to feel something on Dean’s skin. 

Dean thinks he should be pushing Cas off, making some snide remark, some joke to make the other man take his hands away but -- Cas doesn’t always _get_ jokes and Dean doesn’t really want to hurt his feelings and if that's just a convenient excuse he's telling himself right now so Cas will keep touching him-- 

Castiel’s fingers smooth along his eyebrow, gently brush back in the wrong direction once, then smooth over skin again and Dean’s throat goes dry.

Whatever the hell is going to come out of his mouth next -- and he’s biting his tongue nearly hard enough to bleed to make sure _nothing_ does -- it isn’t gonna be ‘Stop.’

‘I thought you would come back to yourself...’ Castiel breaks off.

‘Not six foot under?’ Dean surprises himself by sounding relatively normal. 

He doesn’t _feel_ normal. 

He feels like he’s leaning towards Castiel, like his body’s choosing to move towards the other man without asking his brain because that slow, careful hand feels so fucking _good_ and so not like anything that’s happened to him in the last year.

He guesses from the movement Castiel’s fingers make -- a slight jog towards his earlobe -- that the angel has shrugged.

‘Where you needed to be.’

‘So...’ Dean swallows hard and tucks his hands more firmly in his jacket pockets. ‘Standing next to Michael?’ 

_There’s_ the snide comment he was looking for -- and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. What has Cas done the past year except help him escape being a meatsuit, even after Dean had promised and meant to make good on it.

Castiel’s hand pauses at the angle of Dean’s jaw, his fingertips brushing under Dean’s ear, against the short hairs behind his ear and Dean can’t take a deep breath any more. 

‘S’okay, Cas. I know why y’did it. S’fine.’ The words leave an uncomfortable feeling in his chest and he doesn’t know what to do to get rid of it. The pleasant tingle from Castiel’s weird little face massage is gone; the angel’s hand is heavy on his shoulder.

‘You think...you are not important to me,’ Castiel says slowly.

Dean groans silently. What the hell is this -- he didn’t sign up for this shit. Witches -- a nice, clean, simple coven -- _that_ was what this evening had been meant to be about. Not this -- this -- the whatever the hell _this_ is.

‘Cas, I know why you did what you did, okay? It was important. _I’m_ important. S’fine. I get it. S’all...fuckin’ fine.’ He grits his teeth and tries to listen to the house around them. He can’t hear a damned thing and he’s starting to wonder if they’re sharing this godawful heart-to-heart based on the wind slamming a door shut.

Then he hears the clear sound of footsteps on the floor above them and involuntarily pulls back, flattening his shoulderblades against the wall. Castiel goes silent, but his hand doesn’t leave Dean’s shoulder. 

The footsteps pass overhead once, twice, then a door opens, closes, and the steps fade away.

_Shit._ Dean leans back, the top of his head against the bottom of the shelf above him and tries not to hyperventilate. How fucking _long_ are they going to be stuck in this goddamn wooden _box_ that is starting to smell like mold and rot and-- 

The tight circle of his thoughts is abruptly shattered when Castiel is suddenly right _there_. He thinks that maybe the angel only meant to step closer but since they’ve got about four feet of space to work with, _closer_ really means _against_. 

He’s pretty sure the startled whimper doesn’t get any further than his throat.

_‘Why_ do you think you are not important to me?’ Castiel’s voice is barely a shape of sound against his ear and Dean shudders at the warm air over his skin and the teasing brush of Castiel’s shaggy hair against his ear. 

He clenches his fists in his pockets, steeling himself against the distinct feeling that he’s falling and Castiel’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing holding him up.

‘You dropped me in a fucking _hole_ and let me dig my own way out, Cas. How ‘bout we start with that?’ The anger in his own furious whisper surprises him and he lets it go, lets the words spill out: ‘I ate enough dirt to last me the rest of my fuckin’ _life!_ I could barely _breathe--’_

And the rest of the thought shatters when Castiel kisses him. 

It isn’t much -- a damp press of warm lips and a taste of sweetness -- but somehow by the time they break apart, Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s waist and Castiel is touching Dean’s chin, holding him steady.

‘I would have breathed for you,’ Castiel whispers and Dean swallows hard, feeling the click in his throat. Castiel doesn’t lie -- he’s not even sure the angel knows _how_ or would let himself if he knew. 

‘How the hell was I supposed to know that?’ His voice comes out like something between a whisper and a choke and he settles his hands more firmly against Castiel’s hips, pressing his fingertips against the thin cloth of the white button-down. Castiel doesn’t protest, don’t make him move.

Maybe this isn’t something they don’t do after all.

Castiel makes a faint noise -- argument or agreement, Dean doesn’t know -- and kisses him again, more slowly this time, a flicker of tongue against the corner of Dean’s mouth. This time when Castiel slips back, Dean follows him involuntarily, chasing that warm press.

‘You know _now,’_ Castiel murmurs, nosing against Dean’s cheek. ‘I would not leave you like that. I _will_ never leave you like that.’

Dean can’t help that his hands tighten and he can’t help the slight choke of his breathing either. But he’ll be goddamned if he lets Cas feel tears on his cheeks, so he leans forward and catches Cas’ mouth, letting Castiel breathe out promises neither of them can keep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Broken," Seether and Amy Lee, _Disclaimer II_.


End file.
